


Games We Play

by lily_lovely



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-20
Updated: 2009-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_lovely/pseuds/lily_lovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole point of the game is whether you trust me or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games We Play

You've never liked crying.

It's not that it makes you feel weak, or that you don't have emotions, or that you don't appreciate the benefits of a good Titanic-induced weepfest.

It's how it makes you feel--like you're being ripped apart, like some desperate, crawly thing inside you is trying to heave its way out.

And then you have to rub at your eyes, and wipe at your face so the tears don't dry and get itchy, and it's a whole mess that you'd really prefer to avoid, if possible.

The whole thing is made way more than doubly awkward when you've been doing said act of tear-producing in the lap of your best friend's ex-girlfriend-who-she-should-still-be-with-right-now-and-would-be-if-not-for-certain-bad-habits, clutching at her knees, the whole big dramatic weepy deal--for about twenty minutes straight.

Especially when you finally have to lift your head up. If there's a manual on how to avoid awkwardness when lifting your head out of your best friend's ex's lap, you would so love to read it.

You tuck some stray hair behind your ear, and smile, nervously.

Then again, if there's anyone who knows how to make these sorts of things not-so-awkward, it's definitely Tara.

Tara, who's just sitting there, with enough concern written into her face that it almost makes you start crying again.

"Um," you say, settling back onto your heels, and dragging the side of your hand across your face. "Thanks."

"Of course," Tara replies, almost automatically.

You think about that phrase. 'Of course.' If you forget the way it's normally used, it means--that something has happened that is a matter of course. Something that's regular, a pattern.

You're surprised at how much you really _want_ this to become a pattern. Whatever..._this_ is.

But you just nod, ducking your head to avoid looking at the sympathy you don't deserve. You don't want to think about that--the sympathy, the reason she's giving it to you, the many and varied reasons you don't deserve it. The things you're doing, the person--_non_-person you're doing them to.

Have been doing them to. It's over now.

You're done thinking about this, right now. Or you want to be.

"We should do something," you say suddenly. Because you don't want this moment to end, to have to trudge up to your dismal room and be alone with your thoughts--_you shouldn't have done this, which "this" is it, hurting him or leaving him, maybe you do love him, would that be so bad?_

It's a mind-sucking spiral of uselessness, and you're leaping out of it. You want no part of it. Last stop, all Buffy-persons get off.

You look up at her, and she's biting at her thumbnail. "You...you really want to? Right now?"

Impulsively, you reach up and pull her hand away from her mouth. "Yeah. Sure," you answer.

"Of course," you add softly, wanting to root the idea into your mind.

"Okay. Uh. Like what?"

And suddenly you have the _best_ idea.

***  
You had thought this situation couldn't get any more awkward.

"You--you want us to _what_?"

Buffy beams at you, like this is surely the most ingenious idea in the history of the universe. "Girl time! We'll paint each other's nails, and do each other's hair, and maybe watch some sappy movies, and eat junk food, and tell each other secrets. It will make both of us feel better in the wake of--um--emotional badness, and we will be each other's comforts and confidantes. At least for tonight. Pretty pretty please?"

You eye her skeptically. You've never been very close to Buffy before--there was the whole Scooby-family-trust thing that never really went away, but all this unexpected shoulder-leaning is...unexpected.

But you think about it, and notice her increasingly bereft expression, and think about it again.

Maybe this really _could_ be good for both of you. Maybe you can both forget about how hard and depressing life is and enjoy yourselves.

You've never really had a good friend--at least not one who's a girl and who you aren't sleeping with. And you can't imagine that Buffy's very close to anyone right now, with all the secret-keeping and self-loathing.

You nod decisively and start to smile. "Definitely. I, um, have a pretty big selection of sappy movies at my place. Like Sleepless in Seattle, and Ever After."

A bright grin lights up her face. "Perfect! You should drive me there. Seeing as the last time I drove a car it involved band candy and unspeakable sexual situations."

You look at her sideways, not sure if she's joking. "Um. Right. Let's go, then."

***  
You're not sure what you had expected Tara's apartment to look like. But now that you're here, you realize that if Tara were magically turned into an apartment, this is _exactly_ what it would look like.

(You make a mental note to ask Willow about what the limits of turning people into other things are later. Just out of curiosity.)

There are candles scattered almost everywhere; settled and perched on every shelf and corner and table where there's room. Mystical doodads and decorative pillows play frequent supporting roles, and there's a scent in the air that you can't quite identify--it's floral, and incense-y.

It smells both familiar and foreign.

Bookshelves line the walls, and one of them contains an impressive collection of chick flicks. You tilt your head to read the titles.

"Wow," you say softly. "You're an even bigger softie than me."

She smiles. "And no one would ever think that--me being softer than the Slayer."

Your face clouds, and you put back the copy of the Pride and Prejudice miniseries. You turn to face her.

"Look. Tara. I don't want to be the Slayer while I'm here. Or anything, really. I'm not your ex's friend, or--or even Buffy. Does...that make sense?"

Her expression sobers, and she nods. "Of course. I'm sorry, that was stupid of me."

"No! I--well, it doesn't matter. You go get chocolate and makeover materials, and I'll pick out some movies."

As she ducks into a side room, you think that you find this whole concept of Tara having a life outside of Willow completely strange, but also surprisingly comforting.

It shows--that you can be something without..._them_. That you can have your own identity.

You like that.

***  
You're scanning the cupboard for chips when it hits you to wonder what the hell you're doing.

You're going to spend the night, alone, with Buffy. Who so clearly needs something besides romantic comedies in her life right now.

But--what's wrong with it, really? One night, to pretend you're normal girls, to go through the motions of friendship, to forget about how your hearts ache?

You bite your lip. If this were any other girl, any other pair of recently broken-up women in need of a rebound--there'd be, well, rebounding.

Except how incredibly awkward would that be later, and who are you to consider such a thing when Buffy isn't even gay? And she probably wouldn't be attracted to _you_, if she were.

You shake your head and, finally finding a bag of chips, add them to your stack of food.

It's just a girls' night.

***  
You're sitting on one side of Tara's bed, critically examining the display laid out before you.

There's a case of Coke, a bag of Hershey's Kisses, a bag of potato chips, and a bag of Dove chocolate bars. A neat row of nail polish--carefully arranged in color order--lies in front of that, separating the food from the makeup: lipsticks, blushes, mascara, eye shadow, hair clips. You've fanned your movie selections out next to them.

You give a firm nod of approval, reaching for a Coke. "I have scientifically determined that this will be the best slumber party ever."

Tara giggles, and with a pang you think that you've never heard her do that unless it's because of something Willow said.

"What should come first?" she asks. "I'm pretty sure even the best slumber party ever needs a plan."

"Of _course_," you say, thinking back to the start of the evening. "We're going to put in a movie and eat ourselves silly, and then we'll put in another movie and give each other makeovers during, and then we'll play Truth or Dare."

She smirks. "Truth or Dare?"

"Oh, please! It's only like the key ingredient to sleepovers. You'll see. Now, are we watching Never Been Kissed or Notting Hill first?"

She shakes her head at you, but nudges Notting Hill forward. You smile with satisfaction, and hop off the bed to slip the video in.

As you turn to go back to your spot, you catch her looking at you oddly.

But then she turns away, and by the time you're sitting down and reaching for the chocolate, it's normal.

You shrug it off.

***  
You are sitting very still so that you won't disturb Buffy's process.

One of her hands is holding the side of your head, and the other is carefully applying eye shadow on your face.

Your eyes are closed, but you feel like you can see her expression anyways; a slight frown of concentration, with a sort of thoughtful tint to it.

A part of you says that you're also staying still so you can appreciate the way her fingers feel against her face--the way you can hear her shallow breathing--the warmth of her palm against your temple--but you try to ignore it.

"There!" she cries. "Finished!"

She pulls her hands away, and you open your eyes to see her admiring her work. "Oh, I'm good. Not--not that you were ugly _before_, it's just that--um--I'll stop talking now and let you look."

You chuckle, and appraise yourself in the hand mirror you scrounged up from the bathroom. You turn your head from side to side, slowly starting to smile.

It's not like in the movies--where the ugly girl takes off her glasses and is instantly beautiful--but there's a difference. You like it.

You're pretty sure that you like spending time with Buffy even more, but you push the thought away again. Nothing good could come of that, and it's impossible, so you can't even think it.

"Do you like it?" Buffy asks, a bit nervously.

"Of course," you say softly. "It's wonderful. Thank you."

She nods, like she had expected you to say that. "Good. So, where do you keep your secret stash of booze? Because the secret to a good Truth or Dare is getting tipsy first."

You glare at her, inwardly panicking. You tend to talk a _lot_ about anything you're thinking when you're drunk, according to Willow--which would be very bad in light of the things you've recently been thinking about.

"Uh--Buffy, I don't think that's the best idea. With...what's going on with you right now."

She sticks her chin out resolutely. "No. No way are you refusing to show me the booze. I know there has to be some, and this cannot be the perfect sleepover without it."

"Look, Buffy, I--"

"You what? Afraid you'll say something I won't like? It's not like I'll remember it anyway." Her face softens. "Come on, don't you trust me? I trust you."

You sigh, and go to dig out your two bottles of tequila, while a thin, high voice inside of you squeals, _She trusts me!_

***  
You hold out your hands and wiggle your fingers as Tara comes back in with the alcohol.

You sigh a little with happiness as one of the bottles gets placed in your hands--even with all of the bad times you've had with alcohol in the past, there's something about a bottle like this in your hands that feels instantly comforting and _right_.

Like it will make everything better.

You examine the label expertly. "El Tesoro. Very nice," you say approvingly. She starts to hand you a shot glass, but you shake your head, already fumbling the bottle open. "I'm a drink-from-the-bottle kind of girl."

She sighs again, putting the glasses over on a table. "When in Rome," she mutters, opening her bottle.

You take a long, slow sip, and close your eyes as the taste wiggles its way into your stomach. It reminds you of drinking with...

...no. You are _not_ going to think about him. Not now.

Instead, you look at Tara, who's picking at her label. It doesn't look like she's drunken any of it.

You scooch forward on the bed, and put your finger under her chin. "Hey. Is everything alright?"

She flinches, and smiles hastily, backing away from you slightly. "Oh, no, yes, it's fine. Everything's fine."

She takes a sip out of her bottle, as if to prove that she's fine. You fiddle with the neck of yours, not sure what to do.

"Is it about Willow?" you ask quietly.

Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head vigorously. "No, oh, no, not at all. Well--I guess a little. I'm just...a bit lonely."

You nod, taking another pull on the bottle. "Yeah. Yeah. I get that."

You both sit like statues in the somber silence that follows, letting it hang over you like a heavy cloud of dread.

Finally, you shake your head, laughing. "See, this is what we were trying to avoid. Come on. Truth or dare?"

***  
"Truth," you answer nervously.

"Okay," she says, nodding thoughtfully. "Okay. How about--who have you been with aside from Willow? And you have to say how far you went with them."

You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, and try to find a diversionary tactic. "Well, what's the point of that? Why do you care?"

"Oh, I don't. Not really. But it shows whether you trust me or not. And that's the whole point of the game, right?"

You duck your head, letting your hair obscure her from view, and take a decisive swallow of tequila. Then purposefully shake your hair back again, because, really, you don't have to hide from her.

"Amelia Winters, in tenth grade. She was my best friend, and we kissed, but then she freaked out and never talked to me again."

You down a long gulp of tequila--you don't like to think about her. "And Emily Maddox, summer after twelfth grade. We--um--slept together."

You dart a glance over at Buffy, and see that she's nodding very slowly. You think she's already pretty drunk.

"What was it like? I mean--what does it feel like to, to have sex with a woman?"

You shrug, and smile wryly. "What does it feel like to have sex with a man?"

She giggles, running her finger around the mouth of her bottle. "Point taken. I think. Maybe that was a serious question."

You shake your head, and you lapse into comfortable silence.

Until she prods you with her foot. "You have to ask me if I want a truth or a dare."

You roll your eyes. "Truth or dare?"

She pulls a faux-serious face, then spurts out with tittering laughter at her own expression. "Dare."

She's leaning forward far enough that you can smell her breath; like sugar and alcohol and sorrow-laden promises.

It smells surprisingly good, and you think of how easy it would be--you would dare her to kiss you, and she would, because Buffy isn't the type to back down from dares. Especially drunk Buffy.

And then one thing would lead to another, and you could tell her in the morning that nothing happened.

You catch yourself suddenly. Even considering these things makes you--no.

You shake your head, angrily. "I can't think of one."

She pouts. "Booo! I say boo to that. You know why? Because I need a dare, that's why."

You're frighteningly aware of her face inching closer to yours. What is she doing?

"So I'll make one for myself."

One of her hands is one your knee, and the other is slowly reaching up through the air to--to what?

It finally lands on the side of your face, and the touch makes you breathe out a sigh involuntarily. "I dare myself to find out what it's like to have sex with a woman."

Before you can say anything, she's kissing you.

It's clumsy, and from this close the tequila breath is actually a bit overpowering. But her hand is still on your face, rubbing slow circles into your cheek, and the hand that was on your knee is slowly creeping up your side...

And you give up fighting.

***  
Before you started this, you thought that you shouldn't be doing this, because Tara is Willow's. Or at least she should be, even if they're not dating, because you're pretty sure they both still love each other, and they're probably going to get back together sometime, because Willow's doing better--and also you are definitely not gay.

But that was five swallows of tequila ago, and you're sure now that Tara wants to do this as much as you do, because she's acting a little like Spike when he's trying to pretend he doesn't want you.

And it's thinking of Spike that finally decides it. You want something new, that can burn away the scars he's left on you--something that can heal you.

And soon, all you can think is that this feels _really_ good.

You feel like you're running in desperate search of something, like after you met Dracula--you're chasing more feeling, more touch, more _good_.

You move your hands to grip her shoulders fiercely, and lean into the kiss. It feels like something you've done before, and you're not sure if it's because you did this sort of thing with Spike, or because you feel so incredibly comfortable with Tara.

You're pulling your shirt over your head, and unhooking her bra--and damn are other people's bras hard to take off--but you're also thinking about what you're trying to find.

You both peel off your clothing like layers of lies, until you're naked and unhidden.

It clicks with you suddenly, and as you mouth at Tara's neck, you whisper it into the soft skin you find there: you've been looking for _truth_.

And you're going to find it.

***  
Your first thought upon waking up is that you haven't hurt this much in this many places in a long, long time.

Mostly it's a good kind of hurt, accompanied by a weary laziness--but your head is pounding in the bad hurt kind of way.

Not bothering to open your eyes, you reach over to your nightstand, patting your hand around in an effort to find the switch on the lamp.

You freeze, realizing that there's something under your arm, between you and the edge of the bed.

Your eyes fly open and register short blonde hair, and through your hangover fuzz you remember--the girls' night, the movies, the truth or dare, the...other parts.

You slowly remove your arm from across her side, hoping that she won't wake up. You need some time to think.

You peer at her in the dark--not wanting to risk turning the light on now--and are satisfied that she's still asleep. You quietly leave the bed and pad into the kitchen, automatically beginning to prepare yourself a strong cup of tea.

As soon as you've set the water to boil, it hits you all over again: _what_ have you done?

What could have made you crumble like that, forgetting--everything?

Your mind runs in dizzy, panicked circles until the kettle starts to screech. You immediately switch the stove off, hoping you haven't woken Buffy up.

Pouring the water into a china cup, you try to think rationally.

You don't think it's just that you miss Willow, although that's probably part of it; missing Willow hadn't sent you to anyone else for this long.

You idly bob the tea bag in the water, watching it turn darker in swirls and eddies.

A thought randomly pops into your mind: you and Buffy are _very_ alike.

You're both recently out of relationships with people who have problems that they can't really control. Spike can't control being a vampire, and Willow can't control her own need for control.

You sip experimentally at the tea. Wincing, you realize you forgot to add sugar, and spoon some in.

So maybe--you thought being with Buffy could bring something into _your_ control.

You tap the sugar spoon against the edge of the cup thoughtfully. It makes sense--but it also means that you're practically the same as Willow, looking for ways to make everything the way you want it.

But isn't _that_ what Buffy feels, too--that being with Spike makes her like him?

As you stand up to put your cup in the dishwasher, you think that you couldn't have chosen a better rebound partner if you'd actually put conscious thought into it.

You walk down the hallway, and pause outside the bedroom door. Buffy is still asleep, and you think she looks so frightened and alone clutching at the sheets like a child.

You nod to yourself. You've both found something useful, whether you fully realize it or not. You know who you belong with.

Now you can stop playing games with Buffy and make Willow your real thing.


End file.
